


show me what you got

by turnontheghostlight



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Dirty Talk, Hair-pulling, Hate Sex, M/M, Rough Sex, Sort Of, like. an approximation of it idk, overuse of italics Again, simone and brian are there for like two seconds but it's fine shkjflkjsg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 00:50:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19712950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnontheghostlight/pseuds/turnontheghostlight
Summary: got no salvation / got no religion / take a bite of my bad girl meat / show me your teethYeah, he’s an asshole. A fucking prick. He’s just—hot, okay. Fuck off.





	show me what you got

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact about me, exactly three years from tomorrow ago i was out of the country posting an e-rated fic of a very niche pairing for an audience of Just Me ! 
> 
> today, i am out of the country posting an e-rated of a very niche pairing for an audience of Just Me Mostly ! i have never changed in my life ever.
> 
> this honestly was gonna be. a little nastier but i wasn’t quite brave enough lmao. i am no fishcola, after all :’)) also, this au kinda ran away from me a little bit as far as mental worldbuilding so i. may write more of it in the future if i am So Compelled. no promises tho.
> 
> as always, kudos+comments are greatly appreciated!! patjo nation rise

Pat’s annoyed. 

All he wanted was to wreak a little—just a _little_ —havoc in the spare time he had on the way home. Nothing major. Just. Bust a few pipes. Ruin a couple capitalists’ evenings. Make a couple of subways run a couple of minutes late. That’s all.

But _someone_ had to be there, _incidentally_ , _inconveniently_. Go on and set everything right again. 

Annoying.

So Pat’s drinking on a Thursday night, even though he has to go to work tomorrow, because this god damn angel bastard who’s showed up in the past two months keeps ruining his fun and his stupid bearded face won’t get out of Pat’s head and it’s _annoying_.

There’s a shift in the energy of the place, barely noticeable. Bars are always teeming with so much mixed energy—from shit-faced humans, mostly, but also the occasional opportunistic succubus or incubus or whatever other wretched creature that likes to feed off mortal stupidity—that it’s near-impossible to pinpoint, but the source makes itself apparent soon enough. 

The source of all that sickly-sweet energy comes sliding right into the seat at the counter next to him with a huff of breath and a quick nod to the bartender for a— _for fuck’s sake, really?_ Fucking _mimosa_. On a Thursday night. Pat scoffs.

“Thinking of Sunday brunch?” he asks as soon as the bartender’s wandered off down the line of patrons, eyeing the bright orange drink. 

“You just cannot keep out of my hair, can you, demon,” the angel mutters, ignoring the jab. He won’t meet Pat’s eyes, but Pat can feel the burn of his gaze for a brief moment, when he turns to take a sip from his beer. He seems bothered by something—might just be Pat’s presence, really, but, well.

“First of all, I was here first. Second of all: it _is_ sort of my job,” Pat hums, nonchalant.

“It’s a pain in the ass.” 

“Such is our nature, angel.”

“Not an angel,” the angel _—not an angel—whatever he is—asshole—_ sighs. He sounds more exasperated than anything else, but Pat’s willing to bet he can get somewhere, with a little more prodding.

“Well I’m not a demon, so. We’re both taking some linguistic liberties here.” That earns him another beleaguered sigh, an eye roll. The not-angel’s fingers clench around his glass. “What do I call you, then, because right now it’s either angel or asshole, in my books.”

A long exhale of breath. “Jonah.” The angel-not-angel-asshole-Jonah finally actually looks at him, angles his body towards him and holds out a large hand. “We’ve never introduced ourselves properly.”

“Didn’t think we needed to.” Nonetheless, Pat reaches and grabs hold of the offered hand. His kind are always so _polite_ , even when they clearly hate your guts. The contact doesn’t so much burn as it does prickle, like the slightest current of electricity passing between them. “Patrick. Pat, if you’re so inclined.” Before Jonah can respond, he adds, “Now that we’re on first name basis can you _please_ stop fucking my shit up? It’s driving me up the damn wall.”

There’s the beginnings of a smile on the angel’s—Jonah’s—lips when he replies, “Well, that is sort of my job.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Pat shoots him a glare and takes a long swig from his bottle, tries not to wince. The burn of cheap beer down his throat is— _fine_ , ugh, it’s fine. Honestly, he might as well just— “I’m getting shots, you want in?”

Jonah raises an eyebrow, eyes narrowing behind his thick-rimmed glasses. “Why?”

“I’m trying to weaken you so I can vanquish you forever,” Pat says sarcastically. “Fuckin’— I’m getting plastered because you bother me and it doesn’t look like you’re leaving. Figured you might want to partake for similar reasons.”

Jonah seems to consider this for a moment, mouth pressed into a thin line, before his whole body sags and he says, begrudgingly, “Alright. I’ll take one.”  
  


* * *

  
One shot, as it turns out, is not where the night ends. 

The two of them are a _few_ shitty whiskey shots in before Pat realizes it, hurling increasingly half-assed insults at each other all the while. Jonah’s evidently got a similarly inhuman tolerance level, but even not-quite-angels and not-quite-demons get wasted eventually, and Pat, for one, is starting to feel it. 

“I just wish you’d let me do my shit for _once_ ,” he grumbles into his empty shot glass, slotting Jonah a sideways look. Jonah returns it, expression somewhere between irritated and confused. “You know.” What he hoped was a sufficiently explanatory gesture doesn’t seem to cut it. Jonah keeps staring at him, making his skin burn. “My whole fucking-around-with-random-things shit.”

Jonah makes a vague sound of comprehension, then scowls. It looks strange on his face, like he’s built for smiling more than this. “I dunno if you missed the part where I said that’s kind of my job, to not let you do that, but uh. No.”

“Why not,” Pat shoots back, in a tone he hopes isn’t as petulant as it sounds in his own ears. 

“Because.” Jonah pauses. 

“Because _what_.”

“Because fuck you, is why,” he mutters, and reaches for the mimosa he’d abandoned half-finished. He’s got big hands, Pat notes absentmindedly. Not that that’s important.

“Oh, very articulate,” Pat snorts. He’s—jittery, sort of, his skin tingling even when Jonah’s not looking at him. They’re awful close. When did they get so close?

“Fuck off.”

“Suck my dick.”

“You wish.”

Pat opens his mouth to give some scathing retort, but his mind stalls somewhere else, somewhere not at all useful, and all he manages is a cut-off _uh_. Jonah blinks.

“Do you—”

“I’m not—” 

Jonah’s fingers close lightly around his wrist—Pat jerks away, swears—Jonah’s stupid bearded face is _so close_ to his, when did they get so fucking _close_ —

Pat shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t—

Even if Jonah’s hot, in that stupid not-quite-human way where his eyes flicker gold when they catch the light and the low rumble of his voice makes Pat feel _very_ strange

—and maybe in a human way, too, where his beard is a little mussed and there’s a smattering of freckles high across his wide nose and his smile’s a little crooked when he—

“You’re into me,” Jonah says, observantly. Not gloating, quite, but close enough for Pat’s hackles to raise.

“I am not.”

“Patrick,” Jonah starts, and it’s barely a whisper, and Pat hates it, hates that it makes him shiver, hates that Jonah notices, hates how his smile widens. 

And yet.

“Can I?” Jonah grasps his chin, loosely, his index finger and his thumb, carefully. Pat’s trembling—out of anger—hatred—for this stuck-up asshole—not because his breath is hot on Pat’s lips and he’s watching him so intently Pat’s whole body heats up—

and he nods, just barely, because his body is a class traitor—

and Jonah exhales a breath, and kisses him.

It’s slow—he’s savoring it—like a triumph. Pat won’t let him take this as a victory, though, because fuck that. He takes Jonah’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugs; Jonah responds by tightening his grip on Pat’s chin, his other hand finding a place on the back of his neck, and now they’re _those_ people, making out at the bar like some fucking horndogs. So be it.

“You’re eager,” Jonah murmurs when they pull away for breath. Pat glares.

“I’m not a fucking sap. Also, I hate you.”

“Obviously.”

Pat doesn’t want to respond to that. Instead, he dives in for another kiss, makes sure it’s hard and bruising this time. Jonah, to his credit, reacts in kind, with a low throaty sound and a hand in his hair and _oh, alright, that’s something_ —

Pat breaks away with a gasp when Jonah pulls, right as Jonah breathes, “Let me fuck you,” and that’s just. A lot. Okay. Straightforward. It’s—a lot.

“Yeah,” his voice betrays him before his brain catches up. “If you think you can handle it,” he tacks on to save face, because, again. He hates this guy. He’s an asshole. He’s just. Hot.

Jonah grins. It’s wicked, which is strange considering what he is, but this is all a little uncharacteristic for the both of them, Pat supposes. Then his expression falters a little bit, and he curses under his breath. “My roommates. They’re—I can’t really—”

“My place then. My roommate’s out of town.” Pat really should start thinking before he speaks. “Unless you’re afraid of enemy turf or something.”

“Can’t you tell I’m terrified,” Jonah says, and stands. “Come on, then.” He’s got a firm grip on Pat’s wrist now. Between the ever-present electric pulse of contact and the way Jonah’s fingers dig in as he leads them out into the night, Pat wonders if there’ll be marks on his skin in the morning. He tries not to examine how he feels about that too closely.  
  


* * *

  
Jonah wraps an arm tight around Pat’s waist on the subway, almost possessively. Pat lets his shirt ride up just a tad, so Jonah’s fingertips press into his bare skin. It buzzes faintly the whole time—the universe’s way of saying _we would really prefer you didn’t, but we can’t stop you_.

 _Fuck yeah, you can’t_ , Pat thinks, as Jonah all but shoves him into his apartment, crowds him against the door as it shuts behind them. He _looms_ over Pat, skewers him with that half-lidded gaze, which is. It’s something a little new.

“Who’s eager now?” Pat snarks. Jonah’s eyes are dark.

“I am going to make you _scream_.”

That’s a statement. Pat’s dick twitches in his pants. And that’s a reaction. “Try it, big boy.”

Jonah holds his gaze for a second longer, then sinks ever-so-slowly to his knees. Pat tries to resist canting his hips forward, when Jonah just waits for a moment, unmoving but _so close_ , but he’s been on edge for longer than he’d like to admit, really, and when Jonah finally does move, undoing Pat’s fly and pulling his jeans down just enough to see how his cock strains at the front of his boxers, exhales a laugh— _asshole_ —and slides a hand up to ruck his shirt up enough to get his mouth on his stomach, well. Pat only has so much self-control, really.

His hips twitch forward, seeking friction, and Jonah _pulls back_ , the son of a bitch.

“Oh, fuck you,” Pat groans, the back of his head hitting the door as his hips buck in vain.

Jonah chuckles and moves back in, pressing soft lips and scratchy beard to his stomach. “Maybe later, if you behave,” he mumbles against his skin, which makes Pat shiver in a way it really shouldn’t, because motherfucker, he is a supernatural being of chaos, he does not _behave_ —

_Oh, lord that’s—_

Jonah mouths at his cock through the fabric of his underwear, his hands pressing Pat’s hips back as he writhes. “Behave.” It’s a command, really, but still—

“ _Fuck_ you,” Pat says again, emphatic. 

There’s no witty response this time, just wet heat as Jonah—no fucking warning, _of course_ —pulls his boxers down and takes him into his mouth. Pat tries to thrust forward again, on instinct, really, and is subsequently denied again; Jonah draws back to lick a broad stripe up his length, suck lightly at the tip, pinning Pat’s hips against the door all the while, and it’s _torture_. 

Jonah takes his time, all careful, deliberate touches—rasps his beard up Pat’s inner thigh, ghosts his lips across his shaft, quick hints of tongue, never quite enough but so so much regardless. 

Pat gets a hand in his hair, trying to get him to hurry the fuck up, but Jonah apparently has other plans. As soon as Pat’s fingers start to tangle in his curls, Jonah pulls away, tucks him back into his pants and stands up so he’s towering over him again. Pat tries very hard not to give him the satisfaction of seeing his frustration, and thinks he might be failing.

“Eager,” Jonah echoes in a voice that makes Pat’s blood boil. “Should we move this, then?”

“God I fucking hate you.” But Pat’s moving, hand on Jonah’s broad chest, pushing him towards his bedroom. Jonah smiles, and goes.

The change of setting seems to kick him into gear; Jonah’s on him in a heartbeat as they stumble into the bedroom, hands moving to unbutton his shirt. He fumbles for a moment, mutters something under his breath.

“You’re going to pop my damn buttons off,” Pat complains. “This is my favorite shirt, assho-”

He’s cut off by Jonah’s mouth on his, demanding. Pat leans into it, pushes back, like a challenge. Their glasses clink together; Jonah growls as he snatches his off and tosses them in the general direction of the bedside table, Pat following suit. Jonah gets his shirt open, finally, pushes it off his shoulders and uses one of his newly freed hands to grab at Pat’s hair, tilt his head back none too gently to nip at his jaw, trail kisses that are more like bites down his neck.

Pat’s rutting against his thigh like a horny teenager, blindly running a hand up under Jonah’s shirt, saying, “Off, get this fucking off.” He should be embarrassed, or ashamed, or _something_ , really, but Jonah pulls away for the briefest moment to pull his shirt over his head before diving back in with vigor, sucking a hickey into existence high on Pat’s neck and palming him through his jeans and generally making it very hard to focus on anything other than how turned on he is. 

The back of Pat’s knees hit the side of the bed, and they fall back on the rumpled sheets in a tangle of limbs. Pat tries to get on top, he _does_ , but Jonah is very determined and very strong, pins Pat down by the wrists with one large hand and resumes absolutely _ravaging_ him with that wicked mouth. 

Jonah laps at a nipple before biting down—Pat cries out, hisses, “Mother _f_ _ucker_ —” and bucks upwards. Jonah keeps a careful space between them, leaving Pat arching into empty air. “You _bitch_ —”

“Well, don’t be rude now,” Jonah chides, and pulls Pat’s pants and boxers down in one. Pat kicks his legs out maybe a little clumsily to get them off, is rewarded with Jonah taking him in his hand and jerking once, twice, rough. The relief of finally being touched is, for lack of a better word, heavenly.

“You’re pretty,” Jonah says, quiet, thoughtful. It ticks Pat off (and that’s all it does for him).

“Don’t patronize me,” he snaps. “You’re a— _mmph—_ ” Jonah traces a calloused fingertip over his asshole, laughs softly at the way Pat’s entire body tenses. 

“Yeah?” he goads. _Cocksucking bastard_. “You want me to do this, or—”

“Fuck off, I can handle myself.” Pat wriggles away to reach for his bedside drawer, digs through it until he finds the little container of lube. 

“The question isn’t if you can handle yourself, Patrick.” Hearing him say his name like that really should stop being so fucking hot—but it _is_ , god dammit. It really is. “But you can think that if you want.”

Pat doesn’t dignify this with an answer, partly because he does not want to bother, and partly because he’s a little occupied working two slicked fingers into himself. Jonah’s gaze prickles intently, even turned away from him as Pat is. 

Pat fingers himself open quick and rough, taking advantage of the edge of pain to distract himself from the electricity of Jonah’s heavy-lidded eyes. So effectively does he distract himself, in fact, that when Jonah probes a blunt finger between his own, it startles an undignified squeak from him. Jonah must have grabbed the lube at some point while Pat was distracted, because his fingers are slick where they push in, and Pat lets him, gets his own hands out of the way. 

Which was a mistake, really, because Jonah’s as intensely deliberate with this as he was with his mouth, and Pat’s skin is buzzing incessantly, and he is hard and leaking precome onto the sheets, and Jonah murmurs, “You’re so tight, you’re gonna feel so good around my cock,” as he works him open, which is— _fuck_ , Pat hates how good that is.

“ _Ah_ — _shit_ —” Pat jerks when Jonah’s fingers find his prostate. “Jonah, I’m— _f_ _uck_ —I’m ready, okay, don’t—” He reaches rather blindly behind him to scrabble uselessly at Jonah’s wrist, until he withdraws his fingers. 

“You are remarkably impatient,” Jonah remarks lowly as he shucks his pants off and draws close, slotting his broad body over Pat’s thinner form. He freezes abruptly, then, draws back the slightest bit. “Hold on, d’you—want me to grab a condom, or.”

“I’m—I don’t. Get. Things,” Pat says haltingly, because of course this is what he gets hung up on, stupid idiot. “Not human.”

“Me neither.” Jonah moves back in, runs a hand featherlight down his back, makes him quiver with anticipation. “All set, then?”

Pat huffs. “We’ve _been_ fucking set. Come on.”

Jonah hesitates—or maybe he’s just waiting to get Pat riled up, in which case he succeeds—

“Hurry the fuck up, big boy, gonna get your dick in me or what?”

“Well, if you’re going to be an asshole about it.” Jonah’s tone is soft, dangerous, and Pat hasn’t even quite processed what to be afraid of when Jonah’s hand grabs a fistful of his hair and forces him face-first down into the mattress. It rips a moan from Pat that he will deny to the ends of the earth. “We can play that way.”

There’s a pause, then, Jonah’s grip loosening almost imperceptibly— _an out_ , Pat realizes. Because of course he’s still being a gentleman about it. _Well_.

“What am I, some whore you can’t even look in the face?” he snarls out best he can, muffled as it is by his bedsheets, though the way he can’t help pushing his ass back into Jonah’s touch doesn’t do much to sell the vitriol.

“I’ll stop treating you like a whore when you stop acting like one,” Jonah replies as he lines himself up, and thrusts in without giving him a chance to even _try_ to respond, rough and fast and uncaring and _fuck_ is Pat unable to stop the gasp it tears out of him. 

Jonah bottoms out quick, and barely gives Pat a second to adjust before he’s moving, driving in hard, a hand pressing down on Pat’s back, the other gripping his hip hard enough to bruise. 

“ _Fuck_ —” Pat yelps, arms giving out. He buries his face in the sheets, bites his lip, because like hell is he going to give this son of a bitch the satisfaction of hearing him moan, even though _god_ does he want to. Jonah fucks _hard_ , and he _talks_ , voice rough and raspy, filthy, and it’s _good._

“God, you’re—fucking _tight_ ,” he growls, punctuates it with a particularly hard thrust that forces a high-pitched sound from Pat. “Come on, let me hear you, demon.” He pulls Pat up by the shoulder before sliding his hand around to rest—threateningly—the thrill is _delicious_ —at his throat, mouths along his spine and fucks in deep. “Let me hear you, _whore_.”

“Fuck— _ah—_ fuck _you_ —” Pat cuts himself off with a wanton moan when Jonah presses into the spot in him that makes it feel like every nerve ending in his body goes off—

" _There_ , right there, holy _shit_ —”

he can feel Jonah smile against his skin when he does it again—

“That’s a good boy.” Jonah presses his lips to the line of Pat’s neck with the slightest hint of teeth, whispers, “You fuck like a dream, demon,” and bites.

“And you’re my worst fucking nightmare,” Pat hisses, somewhere in between moans. Jonah just laughs. 

The pace he sets is brutal and unforgiving, and punctuated by his hot mouth _everywhere_ on Pat’s body—licking and biting along the curve of his spine, nipping at his earlobe as he whispers filthy words into his ear, leaving marks that are going to last for _days, that motherfucker_ on his neck—and sharp tugs at his hair that make Pat moan high and loud—

Pat is not going to last much longer at this point, not when Jonah’s filling him up the way he is, his hand tangled in his hair like he owns him—

“How’s it going for you down there,” Jonah says against his neck.

“ _Harder_ ,” Pat gasps. “Make me fucking _feel it_.” Jonah laughs, a rumbling dark sound, and obliges, driving in impossibly deeper. Pat _keens_. The headboard is fully banging against the wall at this point— _god_ is he going to have noise complaints tomorrow.

Pat’s—he’s getting close, and it seems like Jonah is too, panting quietly and fucking into him with increased urgency. He’s hitting his prostate with mind-blanking accuracy, now, and jerking him off in time with his thrusts. Pat pushes back to meet him, chasing the rising feeling in his gut—

“Come on, _come on_ — _fuck_ —I’m—I need—” It’s babbling to his own ears, desperate—

Jonah _yanks_ his head back, sinks his teeth into his shoulder, growls, “ _Come_ —” 

and Pat’s vision goes white.

He’s gasping back into reality, body still shaking through his release, when Jonah’s hips stutter to a halt as he comes with a groan. His hand’s still in Pat’s hair, looser now, possessive rather than aggressive. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Pat hisses as soon as his voice returns to him. Jonah laughs breathlessly against his shoulder blade. “Jesus _Christ_.”

“Oh, don’t get him involved now, he’d be horrified.” That’s a stupid—what a _stupid_ fucking joke, Pat wants to turn around and tell him, but Jonah pulls out then, sloppy, and presses two fingers back in and— _oh_ —that sure is a feeling. It surprises a moan out of him, makes his whole body jerk, especially when Jonah’s fingers nudge against his prostate, the slide made easy with his come, which is _obscene_ and very much overstimulating—

“Fuck, _fuck_ , Jonah, oh my god—” 

Jonah lays off, _finally_ , lets go of Pat’s hair, unwinds his other arm from around Pat’s waist and shifts away on the bed. Pat collapses onto the mattress, only now realizing how much he was being supported by the other man, and lies there for a second, fucked out, still trying to come back down to earth.

Jonah pokes at the small of his back, maybe thumbs over a bruise, makes Pat wince. “Cute.” 

“Eat my ass,” Pat mutters, turning over onto his back to glare at him.

Jonah snorts. “Wouldn’t you like me to.”

“Wouldn’t you, though,” Pat shoots back, and is thoroughly smug about the way Jonah’s face flushes and his mouth screws up, his eyes darting away. 

Pat doesn’t get to revel long though, as Jonah’s phone goes off from somewhere among the clothes he’d shucked off and tossed on the floor earlier and Jonah starts, scrambles over to get it. Pat pointedly does _not_ look at his ass when he bends over to pick his phone up.

“Hey!” The voice Jonah uses to answer the call is _lightyears_ away from the one he used with Pat—infinitely warmer, endlessly friendly. _Right. Angel-not-really-angel_. “Yeah. No, yeah, I’ll be home—no, I’m fine, just got caught up at work—I’ll see you in a bit—got it, bye!”

Pat sits up—represses a grimace at how gross and tacky he’s already starting to feel—and raises an eyebrow at Jonah. “Roommate?”

“Right-o,” Jonah says, pulling his pants back on hurriedly. “Asking if I got murdered on the way home or something.”

“Could still be,” Pat points out, raising his hand in a vaguely threatening gesture. “You don’t know what kind of traps I could have on the way out.”

Jonah huffs a laugh as he puts his glasses back on, which are miraculously unharmed despite definitely being thrown to the floor earlier. “I’ll watch my back.”

There’s a second of silence, then, that keeps stretching on, agonizingly long, wherein Pat can physically feel the post-sex awkwardness rapidly approaching and absolutely amplified by the fact that they’re supposed to hate each other. That they do hate each other.

“Bye,” Pat says into the silence, and instantly wants to hit himself. 

It breaks the spell though, and Jonah quickly finishes dressing and brushes himself off. “Yeah. I’ll, uh. See you around. Probably.”

“To keep sticking your nose in my business, yeah. I know.”

Jonah shrugs. “You know how it is. I’ll see myself out?”

“Go for it. See you around, asshole.” Jonah rolls his eyes at that, and promptly exits, presumably before the awkwardness finds them again.

Pat falls back onto the mattress as he hears the front door close, ignoring the stickiness he definitely needs to shower off, and just lies there, for a long while.

* * *

The next morning is… manageable. Pat doesn’t look at himself long in the mirror—never really does—but makes a point to give himself only the most cursory of glances to make sure his hair is somewhat presentable, because if he looks too closely, he’ll be forced to really acknowledge the marks Jonah left on him, which he is not going to do, ever. 

He’s got the slightest hitch in his gait, maybe, but nothing noticeable, he thinks. The hangover headache is not as bad as it could be. He’s sore, but moving. It’s _fine_ , he assesses, and goes to work.

Simone wrinkles her nose at him when he runs into her in the break room later, looks him up and down appraisingly. 

“What,” he deadpans.

“You feel funny. Got something funky going on with your energy.” She leans closer, face screwed up with something like suspicion. “Did you- _ohhh my god_.” Her jaw goes slack. “Patrick, did you fuck an angel?”

“Not an angel,” Pat’s traitorous mouth responds for him before he can stop himself. He’s in for it now.

“Oh my god, you fucked one of those goody two-shoes,” Simone squeals, getting very close to being much too loud. Discretion has never been one of her strong suits. “ _Patrick_ , you crazy bitch! Tell me _everything_.”

Pat shoves her away with a firm hand, though it doesn’t do much to deter her enthusiasm. “We’re at work.”

Simone harrumphs and sticks her tongue out at him. “Fuckin’ square. Later then. I wanna know what kind of stupid decisions you made to end up with a souvenir like that from a fucking _angel_.” It’s only then, when she flicks a finger at it before flouncing off, that Pat realizes there is, indeed, a dark, undeniable hickey poking out from under his shirt collar. 

_Jesus, has that been visible the whole fucking day?_ Pat has the distinct urge to sink into the ground back to where he came from and never return.

“Oh, also,” Simone pokes her head back into the room to add, “Brian and his band—roommate—whoever are playing at our usual place after work tonight and Jenna and I are gonna go see them, you wanna come with?” She says it in a tone that really suggests he doesn’t have a choice, and she’s only asking because Pat will complain marginally less if given the chance to agree himself.

“Uh. Sure, I guess,” Pat says, because that’s the only response he can really give. Simone flashes a thumbs-up and exits. Pat wonders why he feels like he’s about to be royally fucked.

  
  
All it takes is walking into the place, finding a table near the stage while Jenna grabs drinks, and looking up to realize why.

“Oh, that’s why Brian’s always got that nasty aura on him,” Simone muses as they simultaneously pick up on the energy coming from the guitar player—angel—not an angel— _Jonah_ onstage. “Would you look at that, Pat—”

She cuts off when she sees Pat’s puffed-up-cat look, is about to ask what’s his deal, but then her eyes go preposterously wide as she connects the dots and she hisses, “Holy shit, Pat, you didn’t.”

“I did,” Pat responds, faintly. He feels like he’s going to keel over. “Yeah, I— I did.”

Simone’s honking laugh is loud enough to catch Brian’s attention; he stops setting up for a moment to wave at them and nudge his bandmate, who looks over at first with curiosity and then with something vaguely horror-adjacent as he has a similar revelation to Pat. Pat just raises a hand weakly in greeting, because what the hell can he do.

Honestly, he thinks, as Simone just keeps cackling and he does his best to find a futile escape by burying his head in his arms, he deserves this, in like, a karma way. He wishes it could have been something a little less intrapersonal, like getting hit by a cyclist or shit on by multiple pigeons in a day, but no.

It just had to be the angel. 

**Author's Note:**

> got an ask on tumblr saying this and i lost my mind so like. please imagine curb your enthusiasm playing during the entire last scene. that is the intended reading now. it's law


End file.
